Thorin's Promise
by kkolmakov
Summary: A short romantic story of how a girl carries in her heart a promise of love given to her by a stranger years ago, and how that very heart will save a dying King. [Thorin x OC] Story grew out of a reader's prompt for my other story "First Time, Every Time" and features my usual OC, Wren as a beloved for the King Under the Mountain.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My darling readers, this chapter was initially a part of my other story "First Time, Every Time," a series of one-shots describing different versions of the first meeting between Thorin and my OC called Wren, based on readers' prompts. This one came from Neewa and it was "That time when Thorin was babysitting Fili and Kili, while Wren thought he was kidnapping them."**

**The chapter made me inspired to continue the story, and here it is :) At this stage I do not think it'll grow longer than four chapters, but those of you who have read my other stories might suspect otherwise... :D**

**Also, as I stated previously I do understand the age discrepancies and choose to disregard them :) Please, be so kind to do the same :)**

* * *

><p>"But surely, Uncle, there must be some other way," Fili was digging his heels into the ground, and Thorin was quickly losing his patience.<p>

"Get in the water, Fili," Thorin growled pushing the youngling towards the river.

Fili was half battle age, stubborn as a donkey and very, very dirty. His younger brother was sitting on the bank watching them with wide open eyes. He could understand the storm was brewing, and Kili was nervously nibbling on the head of his toy. The poor wooden warrior was already missing half the helmet carved on his head, it was Kili's customary way of dealing with watching his family members argue, which tended to happen quite often, the tempers rose high in the Line of Durin. Their mother was travelling to visit a sick relative, and the past fortnight they were left in their uncle's care. And now it was time to wash Fili. Kili knew it would not end well.

"It looks cold," Fili was aiming for a reasonable tone, "And there might be leeches there."

"Get in the water, Fili!" Thorin roared, "Or I will toss you there like a bag of coal."

"I refuse," Fili lifted his chin like a true Heir of Durin and made a small step back. Thorin growled. Bathing was strangely the only thing Fili would not comply about. He was a well behaved child, respectful and responsible, took care of his brother, and for ten days Thorin knew no grief watching after the bairns. And then he realised that one could hardly distinguish the colour of their hair under all the dirt and grime, he had not even thought about washing them before, he thought feeding and putting them to sleep was all he had to do, and neither was an aggravation. They had voracious appetites, and at sunset they eagerly ran into the sleeping chamber, and he could sit in the kitchen by the fire, play his harp or read his book. There were occasional squeals and laughing coming from the bedroom, but they were in the right room, and Thorin assumed that sufficed. And now Fili was giving his uncle the best impersonation of Thorin himself, brows drawn together and lips set in a stubborn line.

"Get in!" Thorin made a step closer to him, still clasping a bar of soap in his hand, Fili darted towards a small grove behind the house, but Thorin was faster. Years of training paid off, and he was firmly holding the wrist of the youngling in his hand. Fili wailed, that was the first time Thorin had ever seen him lose composure thusly, and then Kili's little sturdy body slammed into Thorin's hip.

"Uncle, let Fili go..." The younger one was hollering even louder, "Do-o-on't be angry!... Uncle Tho-o-o-rin!"

"I wo-o-o-on't wa-a-a-ash!"

Thorin felt completely lost. Suddenly after ten days of feeling smug, he had deemed himself an excellent parent, and he had even wistfully wondered if he would ever had a chance to take care of his own little ones, equally successfully as he had thought then, and now he had one boy hanging on the belt of his trousers, sobbing and smearing snot on his leg, little mouth open wide, front teeth missing, and the maimed wooden warrior painfully digging in Thorin's most sensitive areas, while the second child was howling and yelling, thrashing and jerking his little arm out of Thorin's grasp. He had no chance to escape, but Thorin felt momentarily worried that Fili would hurt his wrist. There was plenty of determination in the bairn!

"Le-e-e-e-t go!.."

"Tho-o-o-orin!"

And then suddenly Thorin gasped from a sensitive blow at the back of his head, and the world went black.

* * *

><p>"Should we splash some water on his face?" One tiny voiced asked.<p>

"Is he dead?" Another, and Thorin recognised Kili's trembling mumble, was full of terror.

"No, he is not. He is 'unconscience'," Fili was hardly controlling his voice, but still tried to sound authoritative.

"It is 'unconscious,' and he is not. He is returning to his senses," the third voice was unfamiliar, and Thorin opened his eyes. The children were standing above him, there were three of them now, and what a spectacle they presented!

Kili was soaked wet and covered in silt, one sleeve of his tunic missing. Fili, still dry but with a bloodied bruise on his cheekbone and a blackeye, and then Thorin looked at the third little figure standing above him. The child was the same size as Kili and was of Men. It was also wet, and the layer of dirt and silt was so thick that one could hardly distinguish any features, except for two strange slanted eyes, shining, of unusual amber colour.

Thorin sat up and groaned, the head hurt, and he glared at the child, "Who are you, boy?"

"I am a girl, my name is Wren, and I am sorry for hitting you to the back of the head with a tree branch." The girl had a wide mouth, and she shifted between her feet in embarrassment. "I was saving them..." She pointed her tiny finger at his nephews, and Fili flared his nostrils.

"We did not need saving..." She turned to him and stuck her tongue out.

"Apparently you did later, I see battle wounds," Thorin chuckled, and then girl turned back to him and suddenly a wide, white-toothed grin spread on her narrow face.

"They threw me in the river! And I made them pay for it!" She sounded very proud of herself, and he guffawed. She was so skinny, as if made of twigs, and it was hard to see, but apparently wearing a simple linen dress.

"We could not hit her, Uncle, she is a girl," Fili's tone was laced with indignation, and then Kili piped in.

"She fought well, stuffed my head in water, and then we wrestled in the shallow, she won," unlike his brother he seemed to be impressed by the skills of their new friend. "And hit Fili's eye."

"I don't mind being in water," the girl interrupted and stepped closer to Thorin, "But they insulted me." Thorin looked at Fili who suddenly blushed and looked under his feet.

"What did you say?" Thorin gave the boys a strict glare.

"They called me a word I don't know, in your language, and said I don't deserve touching a King, and I said I can touch whomever I deem necessary," she loudly proclaimed, and he wondered where such wordiness was coming from in a child of ten or so, "The worth of a person is not determined by their lineage, but the decency of their heart." She recited wrinkling her nose in concentration, struggling with long words, and finally breathed out, the long saying was a hard work for her, and Thorin guffawed again. What an odd little creature! "My grandma says so, and are you a King?"

She leaned in and was studying his face up close now. He nodded, and she twitched her nose and gave him a doubtful look. "You are too young for a King, Kings are old and grey, and you are… more of a beautiful prince." She suddenly shied away from him, and even under the grime and greenish slime on her face he saw bright blush splashing on her cheeks.

"And you stink," suddenly Fili's temper rose, and he stomped his foot. "And thanks to you, Kili does too." She twirled on her heels and stepped to him pointing her little finger at his nose.

"And you were beat up by a scrap of a girl, so you don't get a say," she scoffed and then grabbed Kili's hand and started walking to the river. "And it is no trouble, we can wash."

She picked up the soap from the ground, Kili following her like a puppy, and Thorin watched it in amused astonishment. Kili was very mistrustful of strangers, even children, always hiding behind his brother, and nonetheless Thorin watched him stand patiently in the water up to his chest while the girl was lathering soap and rubbing his face and hair.

Filf sat on the ground near Thorin, and pouting he gave his uncle the universal male look full of exasperation caused by the fair sex. Thorin chuckled and kept on sitting, rubbing the goose egg at the back of his head. At least one of his nephews would be slightly cleaner.

"What is the braid for?" The girl asked picking up a plait near the side of Kili's face.

"It means I'm a prince and from an old family," Kili gleefully announced, and she looked at the black braid in her hand.

"Oh…" Her little face was full of admiration, "It is lovely," she washed the grime and soap off his face and smiled to him.

"Am I as beautiful as my uncle?" He was trying to catch her eyes, she was rubbing her face, washing off the dirt as well, and Thorin finally saw that her nose was peppered with bright orange freckles. And there was the blush again. She looked at Thorin from the corner of her eye, and he smiled to her. She was endlessly amusing. She turned to Kili again and gave him a studying look.

"Almost," she conceded and then suddenly sank in the water. Thorin could see bubbles rising and little hands rinsing the soap out of her hair, and when she rose he understood she was a ginger. There was a lot of the hair too, even wet it looked like a mane, scattered on her shoulder. She spat out water and shook her head like a stroppy pony.

"Your turn, grumpy," she merrily beckoned Fili with her hand, and Kili cheered.

"Common, Fili, she doesn't get soap in the eyes like amad, and the water is warm."

Thorin felt Fili's eyes on the side of his face, the boy was quite obviously pondering his options and waiting for some sort of signal from his uncle, but Thorin just stared ahead, not to scare off Fili suddenly even considering a wash, and then Fili rose slowly and started walking to the river still keeping his head high.

She lathered soap between her small hands, and he stood in front of her with a tortured expression on his face. She washed it, conscious of the bruise, and then started working on his hair.

"Oh, it is like sunlight," she murmured, and suddenly Thorin saw Fili puffing up his chest in a clear pleasure. Apparently he was much more infatuated by the girl than he had been showing before. Thorin chuckled. But of course, she was bossy, feisty and gave him a blackeye, for a Khazad she was a perfect woman. "And a braid too," she picked it up and looked at the bead at the end of it. "Your letters are beautiful. I can already read in Common Speech and Sindarin, can you read?" Fili was studying her face right in front of him.

"Of course I can, I am half battle age." She hummed and pushed the soap into his hand.

"You two wash now, and I will go out and turn away. You are boys, I am not supposed to look." She plodded to the bank, and Thorin watched the boys pulling off their tunics. She was pushy but there was hidden softness in her tone, and they were complying without a single objection. She sat down on the grounnd near him, her back to the river, and shivered.

"Are you cold, child?" She nodded, and he picked up his doublet and threw it over her shoulders. She could wrap in it twice. She snuggled and hid her nose in it. "Where did you come from?"

"My grandma is a healer, we travelled here to the Dwarf Mountains for some herbs. She is very good, she can heal any ailment," the girl spoke proudly. "She is resting now, and I went to… explore," she stumbled over the word, it was apparently new.

"And she lets you wander alone?" Thorin could never understand the lack of care Men provided to their children.

"I can take care of myself," the girl spoke scoffing, "My grandmother is blind, I help her in service, and I cook, I can do anything myself. And I beat up your nephews," she reminded him, and he chuckled.

"And knocked me out with a tree branch." She did, and he was supposed to be an experienced warrior. He didn't even hear her come up from behind.

"I apologised!" Her voice rang, and then she twitched her nose again. "I thought you were stealing them. Children in Men's villages say that Dwarves steal children," she looked at him and rushed to reassure him, "But I don't believe them! But they say you have no wives and can't make babies." He was watching her in amusement. She blushed and leaned closer to him. He had to bent down to hear her whisper, "My grandmother is a midwife too, I know you need a wife to make a baby. I don't know how yet, but if you need I can ask her." Her mesmerizing amber eyes were right in front of him, earnest and trusting, and he smiled to her and straightened up.

"When I want a baby, I will ask you." He was pressing his lips to hide a smile and feighed solemn tone.

"Or you can marry me," she blurted out and hid her blushing face in the collar of his doublet. He was watching the top of her red head, the hair was already drying, and he understood it was of colour of a ripe carrot. She peeked, only one eye visible, and then she lifted her red face and looked into his eyes. "You are a Dwarf, you live long, when I am grown-up, you will still be young. You can marry me." He was studying her face, freckles and a turn up nose, and smiled to her softly.

"Let us agree then, Wren, when you are all grow-up, come back here, and if you still want to marry me, I will take you for my wife." She blushed even more and nodded.

They were sitting on the bank, looking in the opposite directions, while two boys were washing in the river, and she leaned into his side, and soon he realised she was asleep, her curly copper head pressed into him. He chuckled. What a scrap of a girl! And such naivety. When she was older, she would not even look at the Khazad without suspicion or disdain, and look at her now! She had taken care of his boys and was now peacefully snoozing pressing her small warm body into his side. If only all Men were the same, so much less trouble would be between their races.

Fili and Kili climbed out of the water, he picked up the girl, and they returned to the house. He put her on his bed and covered her with his sister's quilt. When she woke up they all had dinner together, and then after cordial goodbyes she headed out to find her grandmother. In the doors she stopped, looked back at him, and lifting her chin decisively she shook her little finger at him, "Remember. You promised." He gave her a gracious bow, she looked into his eyes for the last time and disappeared into the twilight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Amad = (Khuzdul) mother**


	2. Chapter 2

_After the Battle of the Five Armies..._

Heat and pain… His body was burning, fire raging in every tendron and every vein, and he prayed Mahal for only one thing. A passing with honour. He was hoping that the torment he was experiencing wasn't escaping his body in sounds, he gritted his teeth, and hoped that the Halls of Awakening would open their gate for him soon.

And he hoped he would not see his sister-sons on the other side. He fell, he saw Fili jump on the Pale Orc, both his blades already coloured with blood of hundreds of enemies, his teeth bared, rage splashing in the blue eyes. Kili's face swam out of the haze of excruciating pain in Thorin's broken body, his nephew's wide Dwarven sword glistened in the air, and then Thorin fell through the darkness.

It felt as if the fire was burning stronger, devouring him, its heart in the wound in his side, where the spear head entered him deeply, the shoulders and the back still remembered the shafts of arrows, and he thought that if the Forefathers were to bestow him with a gift of relief in Itdendum, he assumed it would be a dive into a cool pond.

Voices came, distressed, ringing in his ears, and he winced. He wanted them to go away, he seemed to feel the thread connecting him to the light coming from the slowly opening leaves of the large stone gates ahead, and he wanted to step ahead, but then a cool hand lay on his forehead, and it bothered him, and brought relief, but he prohibited himself from enjoying it. It was fleeting, and it would go away, and he would be left in the blaze of the agony.

But it didn't go, it was stroking the sides of his face, and then soft voice was whispering something, and he almost felt enraged, it was not letting him to go to the gate, and he felt there were just a few steps left, and then he heard his name… _Thorin…_

Something cool lay on his forehead, and a cup was pressed to his lips, the drink was bitter and earthy, and he sputtered it, mixed with the blood from his throat, but a cool palm was stroking his jaw and soft whisper crawled into his ear… _Please, please, my King, you have to try…_

And he did. For the cool hand, for the strange soothing presence near him, and the drink ran down his throat, and he choked on it… Soft comforting noises, more caresses, more touches… He made the last gulp, and then it was dark…

* * *

><p>Minutes, or hours, or days passed, and with each passing instant the fire was ebbing, cool fingers brushed his wounds, smearing some balm, it smelled fresh and seemed to seep in, bringing chill with it, into the flesh and even into the bones, and soon he took a deep breath in and didn't feel charring ache.<p>

Voices were becoming louder, but bothered him less, and he felt if he could just listened a bit harder he would recognise them. He couldn't remember any faces, the fire had burnt them out, but when terror would overcome him, he once again would feel this cool presence nearby, and soon he thought he could move his hand, and he shifted, searching for the fingers, they wrapped around his, the same soft murmur came, and he sagged in his bed.

* * *

><p>The first face he saw when he opened his eyes was Balin, he was standing by the door speaking to an unfamiliar Dwarf, they kept their voices down, but Balin was gesturing in agitation. A soft clank came from another side, and Thorin turned his head with difficulty.<p>

There was a table by the opposite wall, crowded with vials and jars and rolls of bandages. He saw a woman of Men, her back to him, in a healer's robe from the city of Dale, her hair covered with a scarf, her elbows moving energetically, she was stirring something, and then his lids felt heavy, and he fell asleep.

* * *

><p>"And I am telling you, she is staying!" Fili's voice was shaking, from fury and, it seemed, from physical exhaustion, and Thorin stirred, but he felt too weak to open his eyes.<p>

"She is not of Khazad, and you are letting her tend to your King, Fili," Balin's voice was quiet but firm, "And it is not even Elven magic, the herbs she is using… they are not of Men or Elves… And Fili, the healers said there was no hope..."

"I will decide what is best for the King, Balin," Thorin had never heard such authoritativeness from his nephew. "They say there is no hope, which means no harm can come from her trying. And if he… if Thorin dies, I am to take his throne. I am the King of Erebor, and thusly my decisions will not be disputed."

Thorin tried to speak, but his throat was constricted, dry, it was the heat again, and then he heard a soft rustle, he assumed the tent opened, and a gush of fresh air touched his face. There were soft steps, and a cold hand lay on his cheek, it was the same one, the same soothing presence he felt before, and he heard the same soft voice.

"Has he opened his eyes yet?" He understood it was a woman, and then he heard Balin's answer, strained and curt, and he assumed she was the woman he and Fili had been discussing.

"He did not, honourable healer. No changes." Cool fingers ran over his forehead, and he felt acute loss when they left his skin. She was comforting, he needed it, he wanted her back. Everything was gritty, painful, heated, she was like a drink of cold water after hours of walking in the heat, or toiling in a forge.

"He will," her tone was calm but resolute. "It is not long to wait. He might even hear us now."

Balin made some sort of disgruntled scoffing nose, and then Thorin heard the sound of an irritated jerk of the tent's fabric. There was silence, and then Fili spoke.

"He does not seem any better, honourable healer," his voice was full of doubt, now that Balin had left, and Thorin felt her fingers lightly run on his wounds, examining the bandages.

"He is, Fili, you just have to patient." She spoke to him softly. "He is closer to us than to the Halls of Awaiting now. He will return. Remember, he promised to me?" Fili gave out a chuckle, it was weak and uncertain, but Thorin noticed genuine warmth in it.

"I have recognised you the moment you entered the tent, honorable healer."

"You have not change much either," there is was a light teasing lilt in her voice, "The same stubborn pout." He chuckled again, and Thorin tried to stir. He needed her to touch him, to return to him, he felt almost jealous, and then her palm cupped his face and he forgot his irritation. The other hand joined it, she stroked his beard, and the relief her hands brought lulled him to sleep.

* * *

><p><em>Thorin, you have to wake up… You gave me a promise, my King… You, stubborn, cantankerous, temperamental Dwarf, you promised me… Khazad warriors do not break their promises, and I have returned… You said if I come back, you will ask me… And I did… Open your eyes, Thorin…<em>

* * *

><p>"Kili, what are you doing here?" This time her voice was almost irritated, and he stirred. He didn't like her like that, he liked her touches and soothing words, weaved into his dreams, calming, bringing respite from the pain.<p>

"I needed to see Uncle."

"You should have asked someone to assist you. You cannot strain your leg."

"The healer said it is healed enough."

"And your healer is a dimwit," she snorted derisively, "They will leave you limp for life. Sit," her tone was imperious, and Thorin suddenly felt something was familiar in it, as if from long ago.

"They prattle behind our backs… They dispute Fili's decision to keep you here…" Kili's voice was distressed, "They say he should have awoken by now," apology was laced into Kili's voice, and she made the same scoffing sound.

"And I thought they said he was supposed to be dead by now." She was busy with something, Thorin assumed she was by the table he already knew was by the wall. "And yet he is still breathing." There was a pause, and then she spoke much more softly, "Forgive me, I spoke harshly. I just sometimes feel like bashing their thick Dwarven heads together. I understand their prejudice, but I am certain of my craft. I will bring him back. Kili, do you hear me?" She shifted, Thorin heard soft steps, almost inaudible, "Trust me, Kili. I know I can help."

"I believe you..." Kili's voice was shaky, he took a deep breath in, and they were silent for a few seconds. "It is just… He had always seemed invulnerable, staunch… And he is so..."

"Broken?" She walked up to Thorin again, he had learnt to recognise her presence, and brushed her hand on his forehead, moving hair off it. "He is not, Kili. He is still fighting now. It is the hardest battle. And he is winning. Neither one of us would have endured the way he can..." Her tone was tender, and Thorin felt a tinge of pleasure from her words. He was slipping again, this time he seemed to have stayed longer, and her hands were on his bandages again, and for the first time he regretted falling in his slumber.

* * *

><p>"Leave her," Fili's voice was harsh and loud, and Thorin jerked.<p>

"I am removing her from my brother's tent," Thorin recognised his sister's voice, it was harsh, almost hysterical, and then the healer's soft voice followed.

"Fili, do not argue with your mother over me. I can leave now, anyone can continue my work. Forgive my intrusion, lady Dis. Birashagammi. Biraikni y'umal, Dis, adran safkitabi 'aimukhurb." _I am asking for forgiveness. With the lowest bow. It is time I left._

Shocked silence hung in the tent. Her Khuzdul was impeccable, and then he heard Fili speak in Khuzdul.

"Amad, she nursed him to health. He is breathing, and he is less pale. They were all saying he would die, he still has not joined the Halls of Our Forefathers. Send the guards away."

"It is no trouble," the healer spoke in Common Speech, "Accept my respect, lady Dis. I can indeed leave now, other healers can change the bandages, and he will awaken soon, I assure you."

Thorin felt panicked, she could not leave! He needed her! Her cool touch and her presence, soft and reliving, were what kept bringing him back, with each time longer, and he felt that just a few more moments, full of her voice or the strokes of her hand, and he would open his eyes. He seemed to be seeing light, seeping under his lids, and he stirred. He needed to make them let her stay! His throat was dry, as if full of sparks from under a hammer hitting an anvil, but they were taking her away from him!

"Honorable healer, please do not take..." Fili rushed to reassure her, when suddenly Dis' loud voice interrupted him.

"D'aklut Mahal aglub!" _Let Mahal speak. _It was an order to be silent, and both the healer and Fili grew quiet. Thorin felt fierce gratitude to his sister. "His breathing has changed."

There was shuffling, and a hand lay on his forehead. It was warm and sturdy, and he frowned.

"Thorin?" Dis' voice was hopeful.

He pushed himself, he had to make steps to keep the healer near, and the lids fluttered, the light splashed in his eyes, and faces, hazy and blurry, started taking shape in front of him. He jerked his hand, his fingers twitched on the sheets, and Dis' grabbed his hand. He met Fili's blue eyes, wide open and brilliant, and Thorin whispered, "Magl… Magl rathkh..." _The cool… cool hand._

There was some clanking again, and suddenly a cup was pressed to his lips again.

"Drink it, drink..."

There she was, he met her eyes, obediently drinking. The lashes were long and thick, framing the strange colour, fire opal or amber, and he collected all strength left and grabbed her wrist. She was making comforting noses, encouraging him to drink, and then the cup was empty, and she tried to move away. And then she laughed, softly and quietly, and his heart clenched.

"Fili, could you please take the cup? Your Uncle does not let me go."

He loved her voice like that even more, with little bubbles of glee in it, and he fell back into the pillows, his fingers slipping off her, and he felt panic, but then she wrapped the fingers of both her hands around his hand on the sheets, she sat down on a low stool near his cot, and he allowed himself repose.

* * *

><p>She was humming a song, and he cringed. She was terribly out of tune, but then he opened his eyes, and saw her straight back again, she was rolling up bandages by the table, and her shoulders were moving slightly in the rhythm she heard in her head, but honestly speaking was not capable to relay. The scarf was gone, and he stared at the waves of coppered gold scattered on her shoulders. The curls were mad, there was so much of them that it was like a halo around her head, each thread swirling and slithering on its own accord, shorter ones sticking out, and then she suddenly swung her hips and shook her head. The bright orange mane wavered, curls bounced, and she turned to him and threw a glance at his face, probably in a habitual gesture, probably repeated thousands of times through the day, and she froze staring in his eyes.<p>

He recognised her immediately, or perhaps he knew from the start, from the very first touch of her cool hand, or from the soft whisper of his name. She was around twenty five, but she looked younger. She had the same build, once again he thought she looked as if made of twigs, the same angular face, high cheekbones, wide mouth. She did not grow into a beauty, and he felt the corners of his lips twitch.

"Wren..."

Tears were running down her face, and he lifted his hand towards her, she rushed and knelt in front of his bed, clasping his hand between her cool palms, and he sighed contently.

"Thorin..." Her voice was shaking, and she pressed his hand to her lips. And then she suddenly jumped up, dropping his hand on the sheets, "The tonic, the tonic..." She rushed to the table, and he watched her rummage through the jars, clanking and quietly mumbling under her nose. She was fussing, and he was simply watching her move.

Another bitter drink was poured into his throat, and he compliantly drank. She was whispering some comforting nonsense, and he was looking at her freckles. He was clasping her other hand in his weakened fingers again, this time she just placed the cup on the floor at her feet, and he pulled at her arm weakly. She looked at him not understanding.

"What?"

"Sit..." It was easier to speak, after the drink washed down his throat, and she shifted, her nose twitched, and he suddenly felt merry. The habit was still there, he had not thought of her even once in these years, but he suddenly remembered every little detail. The turn-up nose, the shape of the lips, she was giving him a dubious look, and he remembered her not believing him to be a King. Kings were old and grey for her then, he was a beautiful prince.

She finally tucked herself down, on the very edge of his bed, he was fighting with his sleep, he wondered if the draught was making him drowsy, and she started stroking the back of his hand with her fingers, and his eyes closed against his will.

* * *

><p>He woke up, strange dim light passing through the open flap of the tent, and he understood it was close to dawn. Kili was sleeping sitting on a bench by the wall. There was a long cane near his hand on the bench, bright white sling was supporting his bent right arm, altogether the pose seemed awkward, but there was a blanket thrown over him. Thorin assumed someone tried to make him at least a bit more comfortable.<p>

The tent was cool. Thorin lifted his arm, there were pristine white bandages on his left upper arm, he remember an Orc arrow, its black fletching, and he shifted his whole body, trying to feel what hurt. Everything did. The side, where the spear left a gushing wound in him, they probably had to cut out its head, the shoulder of the right arm, the right leg, all the left side, and to think of it all his muscles and all ligaments, and he groaned. It felt like ache even resided in the bones.

The tent entrance moved, and Dis came in. She was carrying a mug with something hot, and Thorin caught the smell of broth, some herbs laced in its aroma, and he remembered that there existed food in the world.

"Kili," Dis softly shook the shoulder of her younger son, "You need to eat." Thorin shortly thought he would not say 'no' to a mug of broth as well.

"Is she back yet?" Kili's voice was raspy from sleep and from being bent under an unnatural angle for hours perhaps, and he sat up with a frustrated grunt.

"No," Dis' voice was soft, "It has been seven hours, Kili, and all her belongings are gone. She is not coming back."

"Amad, do not blame yourself, you have not insulted her," Kili took a sip. Thorin understood that he was lying in the shadows, and that was why they still had not noticed that his eyes were open. "She didn't take offense, I'm certain."

"Then why did she leave him? She saved his life, she was to nurse him back to health." Kili blew at his mug and took another sip.

"Perhaps she thought her work was done." Dis sat on the bench near him heavily, and then she threw a look at him and ruffled his hair.

"When did my inudoy become so grown-up?" He smiled to her widely, the same boyish white-toothed grin Thorin remembered from all these years.

"You wound me, amad. Fili is the mature one here, I was just looking for an adventure." She wrapped her arm around him and pressed her cheek into his shoulder.

And that was when she saw Thorin watching them, he realised there was a tear running down his cheek. Dis gasped and pressed her hands over her mouth. Kili awkwardly jerked, pushing the mug onto the bench, and started getting up, blindly battering his hand in the search of the cane.

"Water..." Thorin rasped, and Dis rushed to him with a cup.

He drank, cold liquid sliding down his throat, and he felt his hands shake. She left. The healer was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

**Amad = (Khuzdul) mother**

**Inudoy = (Khuzdul) boy**


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later healers deemed him strong enough to finally move him to Erebor. After his fall he had been kept in a healer's tent on the battlefield at the Erebor Gates, by the time they carried his stretcher out of it, there were no wounded and dead on the field, and Fili told him of the funeral and of those treated in the tents still surrounding the Ravenhill. Healers from Esgaroth and all over the Middle Earth had been arriving, so many among Dwarves, Men and Elves required treatment.

The Khazad kept a separate camp, heavily guarded, the relationships between the races still bordering enmity, while Dain and his people had been inside the Mountain, renovating and, as Thorin suspected, waiting for the outcome of his healing. No one would doubt Fili's right for the throne if Thorin had died, but the Arkenstone was still in the possession of Bard the Bowman, now the King of Dale, and no one was yet starting the negotiations since it was not clear whom they were to be held with.

* * *

><p>Days rushed by, turning into weeks, and then moons. They were full of slow and unpleasant diplomacy, drafting and rejecting of treaties, each meeting leaving Thorin breathless and weak. He was recovering much more quickly than the healers predicted, but still he would often need Fili's support to leave the hall where meetings would be held, keeping his back straight and his head high, and once the doors would close behind him he would sag on the ground, blood from the wounded side once again colouring his attire.<p>

Finally the Arkenstone was returned to him, Dain and those of his army who were not Erebor born and bred ventured back to the Iron Hills, Kili and Fili had recovered of their wounds, and Erebor was slowly starting to look like a place where one could have a decent life.

* * *

><p>Thorin opened his eyes in the bed chambers that under the supervision of his sister were arranged for him, and looked through the stained glass window, the rays of the rising sun dancing on the sill in colourful shapes. He once again listened to the familiar ache in the side, the right shoulder and the left knee, the memorabilia of the battle, and he rose from his bed heavily. On the table by the window he habitually poured water in a goblet, and his eyes fell on a silver tray that Dis would bring in his room every night.<p>

Neat little paper squares, the envelopes of herbal medicine left for him by the red haired healer, were aligned, and he brushed his fingers on the inscription. _One sachet three times a day. To relieve pain. _He tore the package and quickly swallowed the content following it with a big gulp of water. _One time a day, in the morning, before meal. To help the healing of the bones. _The second sachet followed. He kept on taking his herbs, mindlessly following the instructions, his thoughts wandering, when he realised there were too few of the little sachets. He specifically remembered taking much more of them the morning before.

Frowning he got dressed and slowly walked, leaning heavily on his cane, into the dining hall joining his kin for breakfast. There was the usual commotion around the table, conversations loud, food abundant, and he sat picking at a piece of bread, some sort of troubled unease tugging at his heart.

After meal he worked at his study, when after a soft knock Dis came in and sat in a chair in front of him. She studied his face for a bit, frowning and twitching her lips, and he was ready to ask her to speak up already, when she sighed and asked.

"What is it, uzbad-nadad?" Her tone was concerned, and he twirled a letter opener in his hands.

"Why was there less medicine on my table this morning? Has the supply been exhausted?" Dis' blue eyes were roaming his face, searching for the underlying meaning of his question.

"No, there is still plenty, I am just following the instructions from the… healer."

"She left the instructions," his tone was even, there was no question in it, though that was the first time he had heard of it. It made sense.

"Yes, and rather detailed ones," Dis suddenly gave out a small chuckle, "Sometimes I feel she considers us rather dim. Or inexperienced, as if we have never treated a wounded warrior before. The sun-lit room was a surprise though..."

"I was put in the Upper Halls by her command?" Thorin's brows twitched in surprise, and to his disbelief Dis laughed.

"She underlined the word 'sun-lit' three times, and even wrote 'though he is Khazad' afterwards." Dis shook her head in an amusement. "In the tent, after her departure, there was a crate of these little packages, and the instructions, and the medicine was given with excess, in case some were to be lost or damaged, I suppose. She indeed has thought of everything."

Thorin turned away from his sister and was staring at the window not seeing it.

"Fili and Kili told me of that story from many Springs ago," Dis breached the subject carefully, "How the three of you met her as a child." He nodded, without tearing his eyes off the window. Since he was placed in the Upper Halls for repose, he ordered his study to be located in an adjoint chamber. There was probably some medical reason behind the healer's instructions, but he could not help but approve of such arrangement. Years spent on the road made him crave sun and fresh air, unlike many of his kind.

"Thorin..." Dis started, her tone cautious, and he suddenly felt irritated. There was no need pussyfooting around this subject. The healer was a fortunate happenstance, she saved his life and left when she deemed necessary. The encounter with her fifteen years ago was nothing but an anecdote to entertain guests at a dinner table.

"Would that be all?" He interrupted his sister and finally looked at her, his stare heavy and irked. She pursed her lips, but after a few moments of tense silence she shook her head and left without a single word.

Thorin considered the question resolved, and clenching his jaw he reached for the first of numerous parchments awaiting his attention.

* * *

><p>The Spring came, and then another, and then an unusual hot Summer, and then finally, as a long awaited repose after the smoldering heat, the soft and golden Autumn. Thorin was overseeing the reconstruction in the Lower Halls when a courtier arrived to inform him that Gandalf the Grey was at the Gates of Erebor, asking for an audience with him.<p>

They sat in Thorin's study and drank wine, and the more was drunk, the less old grievances and disagreements mattered. With each passing hour they laughed more, memories recollected became of fonder nature, and the Quest was discussed, and the adventures they had shared seemed merrier.

Thorin was half lying on a settee by the wall, a half empty goblet in his hand, guffawing and splashing the best Mirkwood red on the floor. The wizard for some inconceivable reason was sitting on the floor, shaking his staff, his pointy grey hat wobbling on its tip, and his grey eyes uncharacteristically foggy.

"And then I said to the skinchanger, it's just a couple Dwarves," he roared with laughter, and Thorin joined him, pressing a hand to his stomach. His side ached dully, but by then he had been accustomed to it.

"And then you said Bombur had to come out alone, since he counted as two," Thorin was starting to lose his breath, from laughter and from the spinning of his head, and the wizard hiccuped.

They went on through the night, and in the morning Thorin woke up on his bed, fully clothed, he could vaguely remember Kili and couple courtiers dragging him to his room, and he rolled on his back and groaned from the pain smashing into his temples like two giant trip hammers.

Nature called, and he dragged himself out of the bed. When he returned to the bedroom he found on the side table a glass of water that he immediately drank greedily, a jug, also full of water, a sachet of herbs against hangover, and he could just imagine Dis' disapproving look at his spread body when she was placing the items, and then he noticed a small envelope peeking from under his doublet he had thrown on the floor last night. He picked it up, his head spun like the blades of a windmill, and he sat on the bed fighting nausea.

* * *

><p>The wizard had been sitting on the floor, slumping on the side, and then he made some sort of a half hiccup, half yelping sound, smacked himself to the forehead and pulled the envelope out of his grey robe.<p>

"The letter… I am delivering a letter..." Thorin nodded and poured more wine in the old man's goblet, spilling twice more than ended up in the cup. "To you… I met her on the road, she asked to bring it..."

He waved the envelope in front of Thorin's nose who was grabbing air trying to catch the white square.

"Well, give it to me, you lulkh," he gave the wizard a good-natured shove to the shoulder, and the latter ended on the floor in an ungraceful heap of extremities, grey clothes and white beard.

"Dollophead," the old man announced, but lifted his straight arm, and Thorin crawled up to him and plucked the envelope from his bony fingers. He looked at the inscription and groaned. It was the same handwriting he saw on his herbal sachets three times a day.

"She wrote me a letter..." His tone was tragic, he suddenly felt very sorry for himself. The wizard was busy trying to drink from a cup without lifting his head from the floor, sticking out his tongue and skewing his eyes. He was not succeeding. Thorin was still staring at the envelope.

"What is she saying?" Gandalf finally gave up and was currently trying to sit up, waving his arms in jerky movements.

"I am not opening it. What good can it do?" Thorin felt very stroppy and pushed the letter away from himself on the floor. "It is probably all decorous, and she is wishing me quick recovery, and it is all very..." He waved his hand in the air in a vague gesture and toppled more wine in his throat. The wizard had finally achieved a more vertical position and was studying Thorin's face, which irritated the latter even more. "And no need to give that look!" Thorin growled, "It is not like she was anything but a healer. She saved my life, and such was her vocation..." Gandalf was still silent, and Thorin continued rambling like a dimwit, "I am sure she is asking for remuneration… That is what it is… Or perhaps she sends more instructions, she likes giving instructions..." Instead of criticism his voice was laced with wistfulness, and he swore dirtily in Khuzdul.

"Why don't you just open it?" The wizard asked, and Thorin jumped on his feet, planning to yell in indignation and tell the old man to mind his own business, only to clumsily flop on back his jacksie. He winced, the pain in the tailbone echoed in his wounds, but the wine was after all a wonderful numbing medicine.

"I am not an enamoured youngling to rush and swallow every word greedily… What are you?.. And it is just a letter..." He did not notice how he had picked the envelope up, and in shock he saw that he was twirling it in his fingers. There was some faint fragrance coming from it, and he threw a cautious look at the wizard. The old man wasn't watching, busy pouring more wine, and Thorin quickly pressed the white square to his nose. It was some sort of flower, somehow he thought of purple or white bevies, but he knew very little about flowers. And again it couldn't be from her, the letter had been in the wizard's possession for weeks. Thorin threw the man a suspicious look. Was the old wizard fond of floral oils?

"It is lilacs, it was on it from the start, and it doesn't fade," the wizard suddenly spoke, and Thorin jerked as if caught after something embarrassing. "Probably laced into the parchment. Or it's bespelled. Through that would be a silly waste of magic."

Lilacs, that was how they were called, those bushes by the road, with opulent branches, heavy with bunches of small flowers. He remembered the cool hand on his forehead, and this very aroma, only a tinge, and once the same faint fragrance on a soft curl that slid out of her do perhaps, and Thorin clenched his teeth and pushed the envelope into his doublet. He would think about it later.

* * *

><p><em>Honourable King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,<em>

_I have encountered Mithrandir on the road, and while he is taking his supper, I am hastily writing. I doubt a letter from a mere healer of Men would have reached the King Under the Mountain, and in a spur of a moment I am taking advantage of the wizard's close familiarity with you and will ask him to pass this one to you. _

_Please, forgive me for this insolence, and especially for the rushed words and unformed thoughts, I do not wish to aggravate the wizard and keep him waiting, although it perhaps will make me speak out of terms to you. I am only hoping you will be forgiving and will understand that if given time I would have written more wisely and mindfully._

_The main desire of my heart is to tell you that I am praying to Maiar that you are recovering and that your wounds worry you little. I expect your side, the knee and the shoulder to be your main aggravations, and I hope you do not overtire them. I trust the endless shrewdness of your sister, lady Dis, and I am certain you are being taken care the best way one can hope for. _

_The same can be said of my sentiment regarding your nephews, nothing but hopes for their recovery fill my heart. If it be your will, please relay them my warmest sentiment. I have grown to admire and cherish both of them in the time I spent at the Gates of Erebor, and as impudent as such hopes are, I wish they knew how dear they are to me._

_My King, there is no way around it, I am writing to you mainly for the following reason. I am worried that you believe yourself in my debt. There is still a chance that it is my unjustified pride and self-assurance that push me to think thusly, but my heart tells me that a noble and a high-minded person such as yourself could develop a certain unreasonable gratitude for the treatment I have given you._

_I am now worried that I am being preposterous and am currently insulting a King, but even as a child I seemed to be making all the wrong assumptions around you. Why start being wise now?_

_You owe me nothing. I have been simply applying my craft where it was needed, and I am so very grateful to Maiar for the fortunate happenstance that brought me to Esgaroth at the brink of the battle. Healers are to be where the wounded are, and I am only happy that I was there to aid you._

_I am now rereading my letter and feel terrified that instead of expressing my respect and admiration for you I have just implied that you see me as more than just the healer who treated you, and…_

_Maiar help me, my thoughts jumble and words elude me. The wizard has finished his meal, and as you can see by my writing I am rushing through every line._

_Forgive me and my insolence, and just know I feel honoured to have met you the second time in my life. I have thought of our first meeting so very often and would laugh about the naivety of that girl. She was so wrong! Unlike the wide-eyed girl, I have seen in you what she couldn't… a true king._

_I am sealing this letter and will perhaps drink excessively tonight to avoid imagining how ridiculous, and conceited, and disrespectful I showed myself in it. _

_Eternally your humble servant,_

_Wren of Enedwaith_

* * *

><p>Thorin was sitting on his bed, the torn envelope carrying the aroma of lilacs in one hand, the letter opened in front of his eyes, and he realised the hand he was holding it in was shaking slightly. He could of course blame it on the crapulous tremours, but deceiving himself would be cowardly.<p>

And then he dropped backwards on his bed, stretching his aching back, throwing the letter aside carelessly, and then he shook his head and chuckled. He knew her little, she had left before his mind was clear enough to form an opinion of her. And fifteen years ago he had spent but half a day in her company. And yet… The letter and those few half pronounced memories he had from the time she was treating him, as well as what he saw in a skinny girl of ten years, were painting a quite clear picture of Wren of Enedwaith, a red haired healer, the woman he saw in his dreams every night. Whatever he kept on telling himself, he had given her a promise then, and as childish and nonsensical it was, it was now a thread linking him to her, and somehow he was certain it was stronger than any mithril chain.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **

Uzbad = (Khuzdul) royal, kingly

Nadad = (Khuzdul) brother

Lulkh = (Khuzdul) oaf


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yeah, it's never as short with me as I initially plan. Tut-tut… At least one more chapter after this one, ****my lovelies****. Don't blame me, blame the muse :)**

* * *

><p>Thorin heavily slid off his pony and patted the animal's warm neck. He received a cordial shove of the fluffy muzzle into his ear and smiled to the pony absent-mindedly. One of the guards accompanying him rushed inside the inn, and he followed slowly, after giving the reins to a help.<p>

The innkeeper darted towards them from around a counter, mincing and bowing in a lowly manner.

"My lord, it is an honour to accept such noble guest in my inn," the Man was still bowing, and Thorin stopped him with a gesture of hand.

"Prepare rooms for myself and my guards, kind sir, but before repose I require information." Thorin shook off his coat, the May day was sunny and warm, and all these layers of his dark blue attire, though giving him an esteemed look, had tired him. "I am looking for a female healer named Wren of Enedwaith, a redhead. I was told she resides in this town." For an instant the face of the innkeeper wavered, after all one healer was not what he expected a pompous procession of six intimidating Dwarves to be after. They were in the East of Gondor, Dwarves were rare in these lands, and they received even less respect and trust from Men than anywhere else. Thorin added some steel into his glare, and the Man started nodding frantically.

"Indeed, indeed, there is a redhaired healer here, she lives in a small house at the North, almost outside the town borders. She is not a healer though, more of a midwife. My wife goes for herbs to her, some sort of their business, women's matters..."

Thorin nodded, hiding surprise. He had assumed she'd be serving in the Rangers Infirmary, considering her proficiency in treating battle wounds. And then he remembered her telling him of her grandmother all those years, and then he couldn't suppress a smile at the memories. She had offered him then to find out how babies were made. And then his mind jumped to what had happened immediately after, to the image of her wide open amber eyes and the blush spreading on her cheeks, and _You can marry me_. Somehow he knew that was how it all started it, with that one phrase, full of trust and acceptance, it was what put their destinies in motion and led him here, in a small town of Men, in search of a woman of Men he was supposed to ask to be his wife if he were ever to meet her again and such be her wish.

He nodded and threw a coin pouch to the Man, and then stepped outside, jerking off his long waistcoat as well. The town was small, if he started walking he'd be at her house within an hour, but he found himself lingering and looking for an excuse to postpone the next step.

* * *

><p>Near the inn he saw a tall wide-branching tree with a bench underneath it, and he sat and pulled out his pipe. Two of his guards joined him, standing to the side, smoking theirs, and he closed his eyes and breathed out a fragrant white ring.<p>

His thoughts wandered, mostly on the dull pain in his joints, they had spent the previous night under the open sky, and he grumpily thought he was getting too old for it. The old wounds ached, and not just the three from the last battle, but the other shoulder as well, from the fight with Azog in the woods outside the Goblin caves, and even older ones from Moria, and he felt tired and peevish from spending the day on the pony back, and he shortly wondered whether there existed some balms that could ease the constant nagging in his body, or whether such was the inevitability for an old warrior.

And then he thought that if there existed the balms she would know. And he immediately remembered the dream from last night, the same one he had had innumerable times. The gates leaves slowly opening in front of him, light seeping through the narrow aperture, just a few steps left, and all his being on fire, agony of immense pain, as if in his bones, as if devouring his muscles and ligaments, and then a touch… A cool hand on his skin, stroking him again and again, the touch itself like a balm, like a salve, and then a soft whisper… _You gave me a promise, my King…_

How many times had he asked himself whether that was his delirium or whether she indeed had whispered those words in his ear? He would think that absurd, she had been a child then and he had been jesting, and surely she knew it now. There was no obligation on him. And yet that whisper, that evoked promise was what stopped him from those last few strides.

She had saved his life and brought relief to him. Would she bring it to him now? Thorin shifted on the hard wooden branch and groaned. He felt old, thinned, tired. She was right to insist on him being placed in a room with a window, he would open it during night, no matter the season, he felt feverish, his skin heated and sensitive, he would lie on his bed uncovered, letting the breeze cool it. He craved soothing, calming, and he would remember her touch. He even wondered if his longing for her was not of sensual nature, if he craved her healing presence, and not the woman.

He had thought the matter resolved, she had left, and he accepted it. Dreams would come, but that was what she was, a creature of the realm of dreams and delirium. When awake he could think rationally. She was an anecdote from his past, she was a fortunate happenstance, an exceptional healer he was lucky to have treating him. He blamed his subdued state and lack of appetite on the wounds and the strain his rule had placed on him. After all, brooding over a woman he had encountered in his life twice would be madness.

His pipe was done, and he rose heavily, as if against his will. The guards joined him, and he started walking, leaning on his cane, following the simple instructions of the innkeeper.

* * *

><p>She was hanging laundry on a rope between the trunks of two ash trees, a large basket at her feet. For some inconceivable reason the rope was too high, she had to stretch and stand on the tips of her small feet. She wore a simple linen dress, dark blue over a white undertunic, and he could see shapely calves when she would lift her arms with another wet sheet. He had left his guards behind, and now he stood frozen at the gate to her yard, suddenly lost at what he was to say or do.<p>

She kept on struggling with her chore, and then she threw an offensive piece of laundry in the basket, irkedly brushed curls, run away from her braid, off her face and turned around to walk back in the house.

He expected a smile, perhaps after a few moments of stupour, slow realisation and then joy showing on her face. At least he hoped to see joy and not confusion mixed with apprehension. He did not expect a loud squeak, then hands hurriedly pressed over her mouth and a few clumsy steps backwards. Her eyes were enormous, and then her foot caught on the sprout of a watercan on the ground, she flailed her arms and fell on her backside, into some merry green shrubs in her vegetable garden. He started laughing, picked up the hook on the gate and opened it. He assumed he did not have to wait for an invitation, and none would come soon judging by her completely flabbergasted look.

He walked up to her and stopped, looking down at her warmly.

"I have killed my tomatoes," her voice was trembling, and he guffawed from the absurdity of her statement and from how much it matched his understanding of her character, and then she stretched her hand to him, and he picked up the cool fingers, and pulled, and there she was, standing in front of him. He realised that he never previously had a chance to compare their height. She was about an inch shorter than him, but again he was tall for a Dwarf.

"Good day, honourable healer," he had nothing better to say, and she looked him over, and he saw her gulp, the delicate pale throat moving.

"My lord," she curtsied, and immediately the nose twitched and the cheekbones burned. He lifted one brow, stubbornly refusing to come to her rescue and provide her with any explanation of his presence, and with all honesty he had none, at least any that would make sense. She blinked several times, another nervous habit of hers, and then she remembered the laws of hospitality.

"Please, do come in," she twirled on her heels and rushed to the back door of her small modest home. The walls were white, freshly painted, everything in the yard was tidy and somehow merry. There were flowers and pots with herbs, crates with vegetables, and rows of some plants he knew nothing about.

He entered a small kitchen and realised that she lived alone. There was only one chair near her pristine table, a mug with some jolly yellow flowers in the middle of it, and although there were rows and rows of jugs and jars on the shelves, there was only one plate and one mug drying on a towel by the basin. They stopped in the middle of the kitchen, and both looked at the only chair.

"I have a stool in my bedroom," she suddenly announced with glee and ran out of the kitchen leaving him alone. He started chuckling again, she was darting around like a squirrel. There was a large bouquet of lilacs in a vase on the sill, it was the season, purple and white and of some other pale indistinct colour, and their fragrance danced in the kitchen, carried by the warm breeze from the open window, the white curtain lightly fluttering. She came back and proudly placed a tall stool on the other side of the table.

Finally some tea was arranged on the table, scones and cheese and jam, and she was fussing with a kettle, while he was watching her move, sitting on the only chair, his wounded leg stretched in front of him. She looked well, there were more freckles than he remembered, perhaps from the sun and being outside a lot, the hair was longer and braided sloppily behind her back, the dress was clean and tidy, with a flirty yellow ribbon laced in the bodice, and while she was busy opening shelves and looking for cups and spoons, he looked at her narrow straight back with delight. She put a heavy kettle on the stove, once again everything was a wee bit too tall for her in the house, and finally she turned around and looked at him.

"I have gotten your letter, honourable healer," he studied her face, with feverish red spots on her cheeks, and she fidgeted with a teaspoon in her hands.

"I have regretted sending it so many times," she lowered her eyes at her own small fingers and chewed at her bottom lip. "It was so impertinent of me..." Her voice trailed away, and he smiled looking at the copper crown of curls.

"And led to quite the opposite result from the intended one, I suspect. If you have tried to culminate our association thusly, you have failed." Her eyes flew up, and she stared at him aghast.

"We do not have any association," her voice was squeaky, and he folded arms on his chest.

"I promised to marry you, if you ever were to decide you were willing. I believe it makes us rather associated." He was giving her witty ambiguous answers trying to understand her feelings. Even more so, he was perhaps trying to understand his own. He knew not why he came. He read and reread her letter, and with time it more and more seemed she was confessing of something in it. And more and more he started thinking it was possible he had something to confess as well. Doubting and guessing was not in his nature, he needed to know.

She frowned and decisively put the spoon on the table near her cup. She then turned to the cupboard and opened the doors, she was standing still, and he knew she wasn't looking for anything there. She was hiding her face.

"Surely, you are jesting… I was a child, and you took pity of me… You were kind, and people rarely showed kindness to me then." Her voice was quiet and even, and he saw her shoulder blades tense under the thin linen of her dress. "I remembered you well… My grandmother loved to tease me later… She would say, 'Eat your bread, child, your Dwarf will not love you so skinny.' She loved me, just showed it differently." He listened silently, marveling at her manner of speech. Her mind seemed to leap from one thought to another, and she would brush at a subject after subject, as if weaving a tapestry. And yet he could clearly see what she meant, and so much more. He saw a lonely child, and a lonely woman, but capable and merry in her life, taking the world as it was, accepting people as they were. He remembered the openness of her eyes all those years ago, a child of Men washing two Dwarven boys and offering her heart to a Dwarven man. He remembered the genuine and unmercenary care she treated him and his kin with after the battle.

"You left and did not give me a chance to fulfill my promise. Khazad do not break their promises, honourable healer. Akrat banno hudukh rathakhiksu ihmurul ra karagsu khajumal dastu." _Trust is a rare treasure, hand it out scarcely and honor those that give it to you. _His voice was low, she still was not moving, and he needed to see her eyes.

"I learnt Khuzdul…" She was seemingly continuing some thought she was the only one aware of, "It was hard, no one would teach me. But I tended to a Dwarven family from the Iron Hills, the woman could not bear children, and then the one finally born was sickly… She taught me, but I suspect sometimes she would have fun along the way," she suddenly emitted a quiet chuckle, "I suspect 'tharrkhurb' is not a word for a 'husband'..."

"That would be 'a donkey'," he answered with a small smile, and she turned sharply. Her eyes were shining feverishly, and she pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her skirt.

"Why are you here, my lord?" She was frowning again, and he could see her chest rise in short shallow breaths. And then he knew his answer.

"I came to ask you to be my wife." She blanched, and he kept his face open and honest, withstanding her astounded stare, her pupils giant and black, flooding the amber irises. She then turned away from him again, and he saw her shoulders start to shake.

"That is cruel..." Her voice was trembling, and he realised she was crying. He pressed his hand into the table to get up, awkwardly pulling at his maimed leg, but she was already facing him. Streaks of tears covered her cheeks, and she looked furious. "That is cruel and unfair, and so below you that I do not understand how your Maker had not struck you down with his hammer for this… Vile, vile words..." She clenched her fists on the sides of her body and took a step towards him. "If it mattered to you, which is preposterous, if you felt obliged, you could have just asked..." She was shaking and pale, and he opened his mouth to reassure her, but she stomped her foot at him. No one had ever stomped a foot at him! As well as no one had ever pointed their finger at his face. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Thorin, son of Thrain! Do you honestly think I would not have released you of an oath if you felt bound by it? I had not seen any bond on you, but surely you could have just asked and I would have freed you..."

"I do not wish to be freed," he realised he sounded almost irked and was glaring at her, but he expected her to be at least flattered, if not joyous. Mahal help him, he was hoping she would be joyous. He was chastising himself now, he convinced himself that something in her letter pointed at her feelings towards him, and now he made a fool out of himself. She was taking sharp labourious breaths in, and he was glowering at her.

"I do not understand..." Her voice was still shaking, and he stretched his hand to her.

"Give me your hand, Wren." He wanted to ask, but it sounded like a command. He just could not stand it anymore, he could see the narrow palms, and the strong little fingers, and he craved her so much.

The fingers lay on his hand, trembling and cool, and he grasped them, perhaps hurting her, but the hunger rose, and he pulled, she stumbled, and suddenly her miniscule body was in front of him, and he wrapped his arms around her hips, gaining a squeak from her, and he buried his burning face into her sternum. She stilled then, he was breathing in her smell, the fresh linen, the lilacs and something inscrutable, clean and soothing, and kindred, and then her fingers tentatively lay on his head, and she stroked his hair, another hand lying on his jaw, under his ear. He closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead to her, and they stayed still, her fingers running through his waves, finally bringing peace.

* * *

><p><strong>AN#2: ****Personal rambling alert****: I think I just don't want to say goodbye to this Wren... **

**As some of you are new readers, firstly, hello! :) And secondly, if so it happens and you are oh so kind to feel curious about my other stories, you'll find that Wren (or different versions of her, to be precise) is ****my constant OC****. As I always state, my FF is a writing exercise, a continuing study of character, of Wren's and Thorin's (or John's if it's a modern AU). I always want to see how different circumstances change her, and most importantly what qualities are her core. **

**This Wren… There is something organic, and honest, and so endlessly simple about her… She is the soul, the very basic version of all of them, and I will be sad to say goodbye to her. But again, she is but a fairy tale. I would not be able to write 11 stories plus three collections of one-shots around her like around Wren1 (*gasp* I need to straighten up my priorities in life :D) or a series of highly indecent one-shots like Wren2 in "Another Night, Another Path." There is a shadow of her in "Me Without You," my coping strategy for December 17th when the third film premiers in Canada.**

**A/N#3: Oh, and keep an eye for a silly ****Christmas three-piece**** morsel I am preparing for you! A ridiculous modern little something with Wrennie and John Thorington and too many biscuits and just the right amount of kisses under a mistletoe. The first chapter will be published 18th or 19th, once I recover from crying coma, and the last one right before Christmas. And I have to warn you, if you didn't get any cavities from other stories, this one will send you straight to the dentist! :)**

**Love you all,**

**kkolmakov **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This is the last chapter, ****my darlings****! See, I was only one chapter, and perhaps an epilogue ;) wrong in my initial estimation of the story's length. I seem to be getting better at this! (Not really :D "convince me the winter is over" is seventy three chapters long and counting, and initially it was supposed to be a two-shot O_o)**

* * *

><p>"There is so much more silver in your hair, my lord," her voice was sad, "And you are thinned..."<p>

"I do not eat..." He whispered into her.

"You cannot heal on herbs alone," her tone was instantly stricter, and he chuckled into the linen of her dress.

"Food has no taste," he did not know why he was puling, but he wanted her to continue stroking his hair, and to think of it, he wanted a kiss. He imagined her lips pressed to his forehead, or even a cheek, and wondered if they were as cool and delicate as the rest of her.

"Perhaps you need different herbs," she was immediately preoccupied with his treatment. He was hiding a smile in his beard.

"Perhaps I need a different company." Her hand stilled, and he felt her small body tense in his arms. "Wren, I need your answer." The second hand slipped from his jaw, and she tentatively tried to untangle out of his arms. He pressed her more tightly.

"You are being preposterous, my lord..." Her voice was uncertain, and he nuzzled her. That produced a hardly audible squeak somewhere deep inside her, and she shifted between her small feet.

"I do not hear a decisive refusal from you, honourable healer," he shortly wondered how to ask her to touch his hair again. "Do you not know your heart?"

"I know my heart," her voice was panicked. "I doubt your reason, my lord. Surely, you are not serious..." She continued mumbling, her words indistinguishable, and he looked askew and saw her small hands clenching and unclenching on the sides of her body. He looked up and met her widened eyes. She looked terrified, and confused, but he did not know how to console her. He just knew he wanted her to himself.

And he also knew that he had been an imbecile when suspecting he only desired her as the source of care and treatment. He felt her move in his arms, taking shallow breaths in, and suddenly his desires were not limited to soothing. Some new fire was burning in him, and this time it was not agony, the flame was warm and friendly, born somewhere in his chest, and spreading in his body.

"Wren, let us talk," he looked up at her again, and she frantically nodded. He started leaning back on his chair, pulling her on his lap. She thrashed in his arms, probably trying to escape, but he did not let her. He was enjoying her touch more and more with every passing moment. She was indeed cool, fluid, just as he remembered her, and he wanted her hands on his skin, soothing and salving. At the same time he understood he was staring at her red lips. She jerked couple more times and gave in. She was sitting across his knee, her small feet dangling in the air, and he pulled her closer and pushed the tip of his nose in her neck. He had no experience of dealing with women, but a small soft gasp and her hand suddenly clenching the doublet on his chest did not seem like an expression of displeasure.

"I am no Khazad… I cannot… I cannot be a Queen..." He hummed to show her he was listening. He suddenly felt bold, he brushed the tip of his nose up and down her neck, he could kiss her skin now, she was so close. "I cannot live in a mountain… You do not want me, it is some sort of deranged gratitude, and that promise from long ago… It is meddling with your mind… You do not want me," she repeated bitterly, and suddenly he was certain she had been saying these words to herself many time before.

"Perhaps you should let me decide what I want, hulwul," somehow it was getting easier with each moment, perhaps because each moment would pass without her refusing him directly. He peeked, her cheeks were as red as a sunset over the Misty Mountains.

"I know this word," her nose was twitching from acute embarrassment, "Children in the house called their treats that way." _Sugar-like. _He smirked to her, she was staring at him in disbelief. He was feeling strangely content, almost serene, she felt wonderful on his lap, she weighed nothing, even though he was supporting her on one leg, stretching the wounded one ahead, and she shifted on him. "Why are you doing this to me?" She suddenly exclaimed, her voice frustrated, and she seemed to be searching his eyes for an answer.

"Because I want to. This is what I want." He referred to her earlier remark, and she frowned. "Give me an answer, hulwul. I want you to marry me, but just as I promised to you then, I am only asking if you are willing." She was breathing slowly now, trying to calm herself, and he let her remarkable amber eyes scrutinize his face. He had nothing to hide, he was certain now.

Suddenly she cupped his face, he almost made a happy sound from the acute pleasure of finally feeling her hands on his skin, and she moved closer, her pupils dilated, and she whispered into his lips, "You do not know that."

"What?" His voice was raspy, and suddenly the corners of her lips curled up.

"You do not know whether I taste sweet as sugar." He closed his eyes and dove for a kiss.

She did taste sweet, better than sugar, better than honey, surpassing any mead he had ever had, outmatching any flavour there was, she tasted sweet and fresh, and he drank her like water of life. The slender arms went around his neck, he embraced her waist, and some sort of harmony flooded his body, her cool palms on the back of his neck and warmth spreading from where their lips joined, and he felt as if the old wounds were silent for the first time.

He pushed his fingers into the copper strands, her braid fell apart in his hands, waves of gold scattered on her shoulder, he grasped her more tightly, pulling her into, but she was seemingly trying to do the same, she was pressing her body into him, and then she suddenly gasped into his mouth and moved away.

"I cannot be your Queen..." Her eyes were pleading, and he stroked her hair in a comforting gesture, like a child, without any sensuality. "I love you, Maiar help me, with all my heart, Thorin, I have loved you always, but I cannot be your Queen."

"And I cannot be a King, hulwul. There is no fire left in me to be the heart of the mountain. Fili will take my place. It has been arranged," he spoke calmly, surprised by the ease with which the words flowed. She gasped and once again cupped his face. He let her grieve for him, her pity did not offend or humiliate, it brought solace, and her eyes filled with tears.

"My darling, beloved King… I have failed you. I was to heal you, and I have failed."

"I do not think you could, Wren," he spoke softly, and she pressed her forehead to his. "I fell in the battle, hulwul. Fili and Kili destroyed the enemy, they are young and strong… I am old and tired… Too many battles, too many wounds… Do you still want me now that you know?" His voice wavered, and she smiled through tears.

"I have loved you for more than half of my lifetime, Thorin, son of Thrain, and will love you till my last breath." She whispered, and he caught her mouth again.

* * *

><p>She moved away from him and suddenly laughed. "You lament your age, my King, and yet we have spent the last hour in the dalliances of the youth." He liked her like that, cheeks rosy from pleasure, lips swollen, tentative flirtiness in her voice. He guffawed and pecked her lips again.<p>

"I was once told by an insolent girl that when she grew up, I would still be young," he lifted one brow, and she giggled.

"And we still have not had tea," she started climbing off his lap. "And perhaps you need dinner, you are indeed thinned." He let her go, immediately feeling the loss of her proximity. She busied herself with some pots and pans, and he was watching her deft precise movements. She seemed calm and content again, and he suddenly craved confirmation that she was his.

"Wren..." She turned to him, with a soft smile on her lips. Their eyes met, and he did not need to say anything. She immediately put down the kettle she was once again placing on the stove and came up to him.

"Yes, Thorin?" He leaned into her, just as before, but this time she pressed his head closer, her hands buried in his hair.

"Allow me to stay with you." He spoke quietly, his words simple but full of meaning, "I can send the guards back to Erebor, and just stay here..." She was silent, and he gave her time.

"You will be bored in a moon..." Her voice was soft, and he twisted out of her hands and shook his head. "In three, then. I can see now you need more time to heal, and to recover, and I will help, but once your strength is back, what will you do? You will grow spiritless, you will miss your mountain."

"I was suffocating there," he lifted his face to her. And then he smirked weakly, "At least I resided in a sun-lit room. Dis said it was emphasized in the instruction thrice." She blushed again, and he loved the colour. He exhaled heavily and continued in solemn tone, it felt unbinding to finally accept his pain and give it a name, "It was weighing on me, Wren, I could not breathe. It was as if it was pressing on my wounds, on the chest… Charring me from within… The air of the mountain, as if the fire from the beast still lived in it… The smells, the burning, the war… It is still there, in its walls, in its heart… The metallic taste of blood in the air, the clanking of blades, the weight of armour… I cannot..." His voice trailed away, and he lowered his head.

She was studying his face, and then she sighed softly, and knelt in front of him. She cupped his face and met his eyes.

"Send your guards away, Thorin. And come back, dinner will be ready in half an hour."

Thorin understood he had come home.

* * *

><p>After dinner they sat under one of the trees in her yard, on the blanket she had brought from the house, and he spoke of the moons that passed after she had left him in the tent. He spoke of the sleepless nights, of the flavourless food, of how familiar faces seemed wan and lifeless, and how he would suddenly lose sight and hearing, and felt as if he were on the battlefield again, blades and arrows entering his body, and he would fall again and again. He reminded himself of those mechanical toys Bofur used to make for children in Ered Luin. The legs and arms moved, a hammer in their hands would fall on an anvil again and again, but no fire was burning, and no work was done.<p>

She sat leaning back on the trunk of the ash tree, and he placed his head on her lap. Her fingers ran through his hair, and he closed his eyes. There had been many wars, and there had been many wounds, but he had never been defeated. He was a Dwarf and an Heir from the line of Durin, he endured and persevered, but not this time… The pain and the war had burnt something inside of him out, and all that was left was the flickering little light from years before, a memory of the days when he was young and strong, and he was left in a small house to care for two small boys, and a child of Men came out of the forest.

He rolled on his back and opened his eyes. She was watching his face, her gaze tender and loving, and he lifted his hand and brushed the tips of his fingers on her cheek.

"Have you ever asked your grandmother?" She pressed her hand to the side of his face, obviously enjoying the scraping of his beard to her palm, and her brows hiked up questioningly. "You promised to ask your grandmother for me… where babies came from." She blinked and then smacked his chest. He guffawed, and she hid behind her hands.

"I did," her voice was but a muffled whisper.

"What was it?" He feigned innocence, and she smacked him again, one hand still pressed over her eyes.

"I did, you impossible Dwarf."

"And what did she say?" She started snorting, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

"She said they came from stupidity." She peeked at him with one eye. "They come when a woman is stupid enough to trust a man." Soft smile was playing on his lips, and she lunged ahead and pressed her mouth to his greedily. He pushed his fingers into her flaming mane, she moaned into his lips. And then she found herself underneath his heavy body.

"And do you trust me, Wren of Enedwaith?"

"With all my heart," she smiled into his sparkling eyes, "After all, you have never broken a single promise you have made to me."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: And here is the epilogue, my ****duckies****! **

**In it we are going to see all the classics of Timeline #1 :)**

**Those of you who liked these Thorin and Wren are gently encouraged to check out **_**Me Without You**_** :) The protagonists of it are once again Thorin and Wren from the original timeline, and the story is born out of the same pensive mood of mine. **

**It's been a year without one day since I started writing, and it was last December when I watched UJ (I was late to the party :D), I was going to 'Muzzah Rushah' for a visit, and I wanted to carry a bit of my King with me, thus the first little snippet was born. The circle is full, and in **_**Me Without You**_** I want to return to the roots, to the very piercing and genuine "sqeeeeee!" I heard in my heart when Bilbo opened that door… Thank you for reading and being with me on this journey!**

**Love you all,**

**kkolmakov**

EPILOGUE

Months rushed by, the Summer came, rainy and cool, Thorin worked in the forge in the town, by the end of Autumn people got accustomed to the presence of a Khazad, only a few still grumbling and meeting his walking along the streets with stares of mistrust. Children were the first to accept him, they would greet him at the market, he would treat them to apples, they were often seen playing in the field near the forge he set for himself in an old abandoned house on the edge of the town. His craft was exceptional, and after a while the old smith left the town, having lost all his constant patrons.

Winter came, unusually warm, and at the end of the next Spring Thorin took his first born son in his arms for the first time. Thror, son of Thorin had his father's eyes, his hair promised to be dark and wavy, and those who knew nothing of the life of the Dwarf who had once ruled the Kingdom Under the Mountain would assume Thror's mother to be of Khazad as well. Nothing in his features was from the healer, and the same was to be said of his sister, born three years later.

More years passed, and another Autumn came. The days were still hot, leaves were hardly touched by gold. The roof of the healer's small house was to be repaired, the Winter promised to be severe.

She left for a day to gather herbs and mushrooms in the woods, and to attend to her patients, Thorin was carrying shingles from the pile by the road and carefully placing them by the wall. He was wondering whether they had bought enough, when a tall figure clad in grey appeared from behind the nearest hill.

Thorin felt the presence of another person behind him, and his hand still by the old habit slipped to his belt, but it found no scabbard there.

"Thorin, son of Thrain," the wizard's voice was warm, and Thorin smirked and turned around.

"Tharkun," the Khuzdul name given to the old man sounded harsh and as if unfamiliar to Thorin's ears. Only in his sleep or in the early hours of morning when his hands would caress the smooth skin of the red haired healer, the words of his native tongue would escape his lips.

"How are you faring, old friend?" Gandalf the Grey stopped in front of him, and Thorin gave him a warm-hearted bow. It was not a gesture of a King, an haughty nod he had been bestowing everyone around him for decades. With pleasure Gandalf noticed the softness in the features of the Dwarf, the lightness and ease of movement, hardly any limp left in his left leg.

"Preparing for Winter, my friend. Do come in, join me at the table."

"Where is your wife, Thorin?" Gandalf sat down on one of the four chairs in the kitchen, and Thorin set a kettle on the stove.

"She is taking the children to the river, she is hoping to lure my first born into water. He is strangely aversed to bathing."

"Is it so?" Gandalf pulled out a long pipe from his sack, and Thorin softly halted him with his hand.

"Forgive me, my friend, but you cannot smoke in the house." Gandalf was putting the pipe away when they heard loud voices outside. The wizard looked through the window and saw a small red haired woman walking quickly to the house, carrying a small girl in her arms. After her ran a boy, his features were hardly distinguishable under the layer of dirt and silt.

"Amad, amad… Ama-a-a-a-ad," the girl on the healer's arms was whining, and Wren huffed air out in irritation.

"I am not changing my decision, Unna, and you are not asking your father either. Maiar help me, he will allow you anything, and we will have another sleepless night."

"Hulwul, amad, hulwul..."

"Maiar be merciful, why did he have to teach your this word?!" The healer seemingly asked herself. "No more treats, Unna," the healer's tone was firm, and the girl pouted, and suddenly her parentage became obvious. Her black brows drawn together, she looked every bit like Thorin, son of Thrain when Elves would be mentioned in his presence. Gandalf chuckled.

The boy stopped at the gate to the yard, and his mother looked back at him.

"Are you not coming in, Thror?" Her tone was venomous, and the boy lowered his head.

"I do not wish to make Father displeased with me," there was a pause, and the healer put the girl down who immediately ran towards the swings set between two ash trees. "I will take a bath tonight, amad. I apologise."

"For not washing or having a fight with the baker's son in the silt?"

"For both," the boy's voice was hardly audible.

"Something tells me the second transgression of yours will not upset your father," the healer threw frustrated look at her older son, and then suddenly she laughed and patted his stooped shoulder. "Come inside, I think your appearance at the moment is more likely to entertain him than cause any grief. The slime and silt do bring some fond memories."

Children had gone to bed hours before, and the three people in the kitchen had been talking, cordial in their glasses and memories on their minds. Gandalf spoke of the lands he travelled through, of the Mountain. Thorin was nodding but showed little interest. Fili ruled Erebor, his letters were frequent and detailed, Thorin never read them, giving them to his wife. She would relay the main events to him over dinner, but his face would remain unreadable. His heart had been closed for the Mountain, and she never insisted. Gandalf spoke of the Skinchanger Beorn and his service to the lands, of cleansing the Goblin caves, of the restoration of Dale, of Balin's plans of travelling to Moria.

Sharing memories seemed to please the Dwarf more, and soon they were laughing and recollecting the Quest for Erebor, and Wren having heard some of the stories still listened with immense attention. Some of the tales she would hear as bedtime stories for her children, and she laughed noticing the changes the original events had overgone on the lips of the father of two younglings.

The guest left the small house when the first rays of the rising sun were skimming the roof, and Thorin and his wife slid under their covers of their oaken bed, and he pressed her into himself. No words were said, his hands caressing the cool skin of his little healer, her lips pressed to the scorching skin of her King. That night they conceived their second son, Dain, son of Thorin, a boy with chestnut hair and green eyes of the colour of meadow grass, with his mother's high cheekbones and his father's noble profile.

They lived for many years, and when seemingly age was finally catching up with them, Wren once again realised that the smells bothered her and dresses did not fit. Othin, the youngest son of Thorin Oakenshield was born on a frosty Winter morning, and was met with smiles from all his family members. It seemed to portend the rainbow of different grins one could always see on his face, from soft and loving for his mother, respectful and adoring for his father, to the fierce terrifying snarl he wore when the war came to the Middle Earth, its dark heart burning in Mordor, and Othin and his brothers joined their kin at the walls of Erebor.

And thus concludes the story that started with a promise and ended in peace.


End file.
